right hand pointing

This house is as empty as a sad poem,

which cannot truly express an absence,

but only offer the presence of a negative

and render it beautiful—

some spilled milk gone rotten in the carpet

 

because one of us was too busy to clean it

and the other never even knew it was there—

a poor substitute, to be certain.

Like asking for the dancer

and being sent home with the dance.

 

Through the window, I watch the worms

break through the earth’s crust,

greedily reaching for the light,

brilliantly dividing to multiply.